


We're all just stars that have people names

by zetsubooty



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Human, Chronic Illness, Concept art Alice, Found Family, M/M, Piano Sex, Recovery, Slice of Life, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Which is already a tag alright then, bc a) cute af and b) makes more sense as a bio Kara/Luther child, both of them are having/have had a Bad Time but this fic is primarily about, but here we are, difficult mother-son relationships, i was gonna put piano porn bc that also encapsulates gratuitous description, more in the “willfully not getting it and sucking” kind of way, not Hank or Connor tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 08:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20423060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubooty/pseuds/zetsubooty
Summary: Connor's sacrificed everything to care for his ailing mother, but he refuses to give up his dreams of excelling on the stage. Even though he's an expert at getting in his own way.Hank has spent years chasing a golden glint of inspiration, but every time he catches it, it turns to the dull brown of whiskey under glass. He's running out of second chances and running out of reasons to try.Both of them have a lot to prove. Both of them need someone who can see the star burning inside.





	We're all just stars that have people names

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of the HankCon reverse BB 2019! Please go here https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com/ for a directory of the other AWESOME works!
> 
> I put it in the tags, but want to reiterate: though the overall tone of this fic is intended to be positive and recovery-focused, it contains suicidal thoughts, alcoholism, transphobia, and terminal illness. yknow fun stuff. but they kiss eventually so that makes it all better right? right.
> 
> Bless my partner, CurlzForMetal, for their gorgeous art and all their encouragement! (and music/dance vid shares) I'm so glad we got to work together💜💜💜 Their tumblr post with the art is here:https://curlzformetal.tumblr.com/post/187436372288/more-hcrbb-art-thatithought-i-posted-and-then pls check it out bc im an old person and made the images too small here. Also they said incredibly sweet things that I do not deserve and made me cry, so like. give em some love.
> 
> Also immense thanks to my beta, NootAfterDark, for not strangling me when I gave him like a week to edit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “We have calcium in our bones, iron in our veins, carbon in our souls, and nitrogen in our brains. 93 percent stardust, with souls made of flames, we are all just stars that have people names.”
> 
> ― Nikita Gill

**Entrée**  
_n. Introduction; n. the initial piece in a ballet suite: following the overture, it introduces the main players to the stage._

He’s early again.

Despite her rough morning, or perhaps because of it, Amanda had shooed Connor off ahead of schedule, leaving him at loose ends. The grey spring day is too chilly to linger outside, it’s too noisy in any of the campus cafés, and too suffocating to stay in the borrowed car.

Moving through the ground floor of the Phillips building, he passes the displays of early world instruments and the glass and bronze doors to the Baker auditorium. He pushes into a stairwell and jogs up to the second floor, but hesitates with his palm on the door. Midway down the hall, a clot of classmates sit and lean against the wall, chatting and comparing notes.

Connor watches them for a few beats. There’s Leean Arros, habitual front row-sitter and clarinetist. Judging by the fresh dirt smeared on the edges and sole of her shoes, she’s switched to jogging outdoors, prematurely by how chapped her lips are. An unfamiliar man sits beside her, turning a travel mug in his hands. Connor can guess from the heavy slump of his bag that he’s a STEM major, and also from the way he keeps glancing at Leean’s face that he’s trying to figure out if being invited here means something. Judging by her body language, it means only that she’s friendly.

Across the hall, North watches them without really seeming to listen and taps a pen against the floor, flipping it in her fingers according to some inscrutable pattern. Where her notebook page sags over her thigh, he can see a string of equally opaque chicken scratch that he can only assume is some sort of choreography shorthand. She’s wearing one of Markus’s shirts, the loose fabric obscuring her frame in a way that makes some residual part of him jealous.

He can hear Nines’ voice in his head, _ go in there, say hi. _

Connor watches them for a few moments, then pushes off the door and jogs up to the next floor.

Just these few tiny hitches in celestial orbits to send two bodies hurtling on a collision course.

No classrooms here, just offices, the murmur of voices and creak of a chair underlying the soft residual hum of an aimlessly plucked viola. Connor folds himself to the floor in the light of the windows at the end of the hall, dropping his backpack beside himself, and starts fetching out books. What he really needs is a distraction, but reviewing notes will have to do.

It’s while he’s debating which pens to use that a door slams.

Connor glances over sharply. One of the murmured conversations has spiked angrily, and the door is doing nothing to muffle it.

“Goddamnit, Hank, I gave up on punctuality, but could you at least fucking show _ up? _”

The second voice is at a more reasonable level; Connor has to work harder to parse out the pleading words. “Look, I had a rough night—”

“It was a one thirty class.”

Silence falls, the viola now still; Connor’s sure he’s not the only one eavesdropping. He glances back down the hall to check for anyone watching, then stealthily gathers his things and shifts closer.

“Jeffrey, I just—” Less pleading, defensive anger bringing the volume up.

“It’s always gonna be a rough night, isn’t it? Or some other bullshit excuse.”

Another lengthy pause. Connor finally places “Jeffrey’s” voice: the music department dean.

“That’s not fair,” sulks the other voice, sounding like he’d been hoping he’d come up with a better retort in the intervening seconds.

“Isn’t it?” Dr. Fowler sighs, audible even out here. “If it was anyone else, I’d’ve fired you years ago. You’re a fucking liability, Hank, and your name’ll only make up for that for so long. Not like your name’s meant much lately.”

“Hey, fuck you, Jeff.”

_ Jeff? _ Connor tries to reconcile that with the stern, imposing man whose photograph hangs downstairs.

“I’m sick of having this conversation, Hank.”

“Yeah, me too. Why dontcha mind your own goddamn busine—”

Some scuffling, then the distinct _ shuff _of a drawer being slammed shut, followed by a tense silence.

“Shape the hell up,” Dr. Fowler bites out, “And go take a fucking shower before you go to this rehearsal, you look like a mop after last call. Smell worse.”

“Eat a dick, I’m not going. I’ll send Chen.”

“You do, and I’ll string you up by your saggy old nads. You _ owe _ me.”

Connor’s eyebrows climb for his hairline. Sensing the conversation’s wrapping up, he rummages for his headphones, slips them in, and opens his notebook to a random page, tapping a pen against its edge in time with an illusory beat.

“I’m gonna turn this around.”

“Sure, y’are.”

Across the hall and down, a door opens, and a pair of shiny brown dress shoes and slacks steps into Connor’s peripheral vision. Connor bobs his head in what he hopes is a convincing fashion, pretending to read. The shoes hold for a moment, and he can feel Dr. Fowler looking him over; he does his best not to stiffen or otherwise betray any awareness. After a second, the dress shoes walk away.

Connor waits until he hears the door at the end of the hall close, then scrambles to throw his belongings back in his bag and head the other way. Somehow, he doesn’t want to encounter what sounds like a hot mess and a half, minus the hot.

He gets partway down the stairs before he feels his phone ring. Connor slips it out of his pocket, bringing it to his right ear by force of habit, then rolls his eyes and switches hands.

“Sorry I missed your call earlier, rounds went long.”

Connor gives his head a shake, knowing his twin will intuit the movement. “She was doing better when I left. They thought they’d take her back off oxygen tonight or tomorrow.” He rests his hand on the stairwell window, letting his eyes drift over the grey-green landscape outside.

“I’ll get them to send me her charts anyway.” Nines sighs heavily.

“Sure.” In the brief silence, Connor’s attention shifts to his reflection. Wrinkling his nose, he tugs at the shawl collar of his sweater, straightening it under his jacket, then dusts off the seat of his pants.

“Should I come home?”

Connor stiffens. “I can take care of her.” 

“That’s not what I meant.”

He can feel the press of unspoken words. Suddenly conscious it’s him having the embarrassingly private conversation in public, Connor glances behind before hurrying down the stairs. “I’m sorry. I’m just…a little tense.”

Nines huffs out a laugh. “You? Never.” He falls silent for a moment while Connor pushes through a creaky door to the outside. “She didn’t… She said something shitty, didn’t she?”

“No worse than usual,” Connor replies blandly. Glancing around, he sets off on a loose circuit around the building. Anything to relieve the energy buzzing in his limbs like an electric charge.

Another sigh. “Come on, Connor, give her a break; I know she’s trying.”

“Is she?” He swallows. “I don’t want to talk about this, and neither do you.”

Nines inhales, but doesn’t respond for a long time. “Alright. Let’s…” His voice brightens in a familiar way. “Did I tell you about the ultrasound tech from the other day?”

He’s had about as much medical talk as he can handle, tangential or not, but Connor forces himself into some kind of half-smile. “Tell me.”

* * *

It feels like he might actually need his extensive notes for once: he barely hears a word of the lecture on the influence of mid-century cinema on contemporary compositions. Connor glances at the clock, willing time forward to when he can work this vibration out of his limbs, but obstinately, it maintains its steady plod. Next to him, North seems similarly agitated, and it only serves to irritate Connor more.

Finally, the prof’s dismissal releases him. Before he can escape, though, North sets a hand on his upper arm, fixing him with her steady gaze. “There’s a warehouse, Third Street. We gonna see you tonight?”

A hundred thoughts skitter through his head, too fast to vocalise even if he wanted to. Some of them more physical impulse than anything coherent, habitual pathways aching to activate, and the distaste that follows. He has the unsettling feeling that North reads more of that than he’d like, but she just watches him.

Connor shakes his head. “I’m good. I’ll see you later.”

“You sure?”

“Not tonight.” He pulls a natural smile from somewhere, giving his head another shake.

North’s eyes stay cool for a split second longer, then she gives him an answering smile, releasing his arm and giving him a heavy pat. “Cool. See ya.”

Waiting until he’s out of North’s sight for politeness’ sake, he tugs his sleeve, dusting it off. Nevermind he’s about to get changed once he reaches the Chande building. His steps quicken in the gathering evening gloom.

The other first years are already in the changeroom, chatter ricocheting off the tiled walls. Connor shoots a perfunctory smile around, then makes for the three who he knows will close around him in a shield of bodies and words. He might not be in a barracks anymore, but old habits die hard.

As Connor tugs and straightens a seam in his leggings, an elbow bumps against his shoulder. “Hey. You alright?” Markus dips beside him, setting his foot on the bench next to Connor’s as if he were adjusting his splits. “I saw you earlier by your car, and you looked--”

“Hungry?”

Markus startles into a laugh, but Connor can tell from his eyes that it’ll take more than that to brush him off. Worse, the sound has attracted attention from others.

Connor makes a split second calculation, then straightens as if something were just occurring to him, widening his eyes. “Oh! By the way, I heard a wild conversation in the music building earlier…”

Markus rises to his feet, turning his head to look at him fully. “Connor gossip? What an unusual treat. Well?”

He can feel so many eyes, but now they’re trained on the story and not him. Connor relays the interaction succinctly while doing his best to up the juiciness to satisfy them. And omitting the hapless man’s name.

“Who d’you think it was?” Simon taps the pads of his fingers against his lips, looking thoroughly delighted.

“Dunno, I don’t really take any classes in that building.” Markus stretches. “Holy shit, talk about unprofessional conduct, though…”

“Guys, it was a private conversation,” Josh starts.

“_ You’ve _ taken a bunch of music classes. You gotta have some idea.” Simon fixes him with a grin, bumping against Josh’s shoulder.

Wincing in hesitation, Josh says, “Okay, there _ is _ a prof that’s, like, chronically late. Total hardass, too.”

Markus’s eyes widen briefly, then narrow. “Was that the one that--”

“Yeah, the guy that made North cry last term.”

“North?” Simon whistles. “And he’s still breathing? I’ve seen that girl take a boot to the--”

“Sh.” Markus sweeps his hand through the conversation like he’s breaking a spiderweb, then swings towards the door. “North has feelings, despite what you guys like to joke about. And that guy was being a total asshole…”

As deftly as Connor might have, Markus shifts the banter to safer topics as they file out of the changeroom and down the hall. Connor trails behind a step, watching them as they joke and jostle each other. The three of them have been dancing together for years, and even though they’ve been nothing but welcoming to him, he can’t help feeling like a spectator. Nines would chide him, tell him he’s the one choosing not to include himself. Not that his baby brother’s that much more inclined to leap into conversation, but he’s always been more comfortable being on the periphery. Not Connor, who’s never been comfortable a day in his life.

Josh is still chuckling as they pile into the studio. Their instructor, Luther, nods to them before shuffling through a folder of papers. The four of them range themselves along an empty space of bar, stretching and letting their conversation trail off. Or maybe Connor’s just not listening anymore. He’s staring curiously at the figure hunched at the piano.

He’s a big guy. When Luther walks over with a handfull of sheet music, the stranger heaves in a breath that stretches fabric over broad shoulders, and runs a large hand back through silvery hair. He stands, accepting the music and talking softly to Luther, who he actually makes look like a normally-proportioned human instead of the chiseled colossus he is. Something about him tugs at Connor’s memory, but he can’t place him.

Letting his brain work, he falls into the familiar pattern, taking in the long-sleeved shirt just a little too narrow in the shoulders and the T-shirt underneath in a shade that fights with both the overshirt and the man’s wind-chapped cheeks. Someone unaccustomed to shopping and dressing without another’s critical eye. Dirt ground into one knee of his jeans, mud dried on the other cuff; outside, and active, perhaps with a pet. Headphones dangle from the pocket of a thick wool coat dumped on the bench, a well-loved charcoal-coloured garment that appears to have some kind of food stain on the lapel.

Markus nudges him. “You’re staring.”

Connor tries not to flinch visibly. “I was? I guess I just spaced out for a minute.”

“_ That _ your type?” Simon quirks an eyebrow. “Ooh, daddy--”

Luther claps briskly to call them over, saving Connor. He huddles closer with everyone else, keeping his eyes pinned firmly on Luther’s face in defiance of Simon’s smirking sidelong glances.

“Right, guys, ready to go? Hope you’re feeling energetic, we’re gonna be focusing on the lifts today.” Luther jerks a thumb at the man standing at his side. “Julia went on mat leave a little earlier than we thought, but Hank here has kindly agreed to step in as our accompanist.” It’s possible the most Connor’s ever heard Luther say, outside of instructions.

The man--Hank--gives them a little wave. “Uh. Hi. Nice to meet y’all.”

Connor freezes, goggling blatantly.

It’s the voice from the office.

And, of course, his brain takes this moment to finally supply where he’d seen this man before: the front page of the Fine Arts Department site, showing off their big get, internationally-renowned composer and musician Henry Anderson.

He can tell his cheeks are burning; it feels like he’s seen the man’s dirty laundry without him even knowing. And spread it all around this room. Though Connor can’t help thinking he deserves it.

Hank starts to turn back to the piano, then halts, catching Connor’s eyes and giving him an awkward smile.

He realises he’s been frozen staring at the man for an uncomfortably long time; the others have already spread along the bar, ready to go. Biting his lips together, Connor nods once, then turns tail. He can see Markus giving him a questioning look, but he avoids making eye contact and takes up his usual position.

It’s not that dissimilar from running weapon drills. Moving from one static pose to the next with fluidity and precision, letting his brain turn off and Luther’s words pull his body from form to form. Letting the music carry him from step to step to jeté to gentle landing, then back to the bar. Perhaps it wasn’t true that he’s never comfortable. This is more than comfortable, this is home.

He loses himself, almost forgetting this morning and the heavy non-smell of the hospital room where she’s not allowed flowers, the spatter of dark crimson on her sleeve and the sound of retching and coughing.

Almost forgets the stranger, too, until it occurs to him how seamlessly he fits into their practice, how he responds to Luther’s soft calls to stop and start almost faster than they do, how not a single note is out of place. And yet there’s feeling in it, vibrant joy in each leap of fingers, soft gratitude in each held note. He’s heard this piece a thousand times, and Julia plays this rondo beautifully, but it feels like he’s really listening to it for the first time, and all he can think is how at odds it seems with the defeated figure at the piano. That’s what they do, though. Sublimate any pain, fear, anger into beauty far divorced from that ugliness.

“Connor.” The two syllables are all he needs to notice he’s letting his working leg sag. He corrects his positioning, the only acknowledgement Luther needs, and seamlessly moves into the pas de bourée.

Finally, Luther gives another clap. “Have a drink.”

Connor takes advantage of the brief break to surreptitiously watch Hank. He shuffles through music until he seems to find the correct score. Hank…smirks, huffing out a laugh, then rolls his eyes. Not…entirely the reaction connor was expecting, though if the man teaches in the music department, maybe he recognizes the name printed ostentatiously large at the top of the score.

Hank glances up from the score, somehow unerringly catching Connor’s eyes again. This time, he gives him a more natural smile and an eyebrow quirk like he ought to be in on the joke. Connor’s struck by how blue his eyes are, even under the ugly glare of fluorescents. Garish shirts aside, the man seems carved from some winter landscape, face marked by the passage of glaciers, hair a frozen waterfall curling on itself.

Connor turns away, lifting his leg onto the bar in an unnecessary stretch. Even with Hank out of sight, his brain keeps on running through every detail he’s read about the man. Which isn’t much; he can remember hearing and liking several of Anderson’s pieces, but they’d never particularly captivated Connor, so he’d never had reason to learn more about him.

Is that what he is? Captivated?

“Okay, guys, don’t get comfortable, let’s get back to it.”

Connor starts guiltily, then takes into his position.

They’re working on the third movement of what is presently unimaginatively titled “Graduate Thesis Suite,” a collaboration between the dance department and the composition-focused Masters students. By some strange twist of fate, he’s ended up dancing the one penned by his brother’s long-distance boyfriend.

Connor grimaces; it’s not like he doesn’t _ like _ Gavin, it’s just that they tend to rub each other the wrong way a little. And this piece is perfectly nice, he can’t fault Gavin’s artistry, but it wouldn’t have been his first choice. He’s not here to dance for himself, though. And he’s sure his mother will enjoy the family connection, if nothing else.

When Hank moves through the brisk opening chords, there’s something almost…sarcastic about his phrasing. Perhaps Connor’s reading too much into it.

Luther puts them through their paces again and again, until even Connor and Markus are visibly panting. Connor revels in it, throws more and more into each repetition, but the mindless flow he’d achieved earlier eludes him now, darting around just out of reach of his fingers like some teasing sprite. His shoulder’s beginning to ache, too, another unwelcome intrusion on his consciousness. Connor grits his teeth, shoving it all aside, but the unsettled feeling only builds.

When Luther finally tells them it’s time to go, he’s frustrated, buzzing.

He can feel Simon looking him over in the changeroom. He nudges Connor with a still-sweaty elbow. “You coming tonight?”

Connor hauls a t-shirt over his head, coming up with a grim expression. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

* * *

Like he does most mornings, Hank wakes up with disappointment a thick, bitter film at the back of his throat.

He rolls over. A minute later, he’s greeted by Sumo’s massive face plopped on the edge of the bed. Reaching out to scratch behind his ears, Hank manages a weak smile.

“Guess you’re hungry, huh?” Sumo resettles his head, gazing at him adoringly. “Guess I am, too.”

Mornings used to have a certain rhythm to them, a busy back-and-forth and criss-cross. He’d written something for it, once, titled cheekily, “Ode to Burnt Toast.” Didn’t really catch on, made it into a couple early piano workbooks and nothing more, but Cole loved it. Honestly, he didn’t give much of a fuck about anything else.

Now, morning toast and coffee tastes like ash, and is accompanied only by the uneven clink of Sumo’s collar against his bowl. Why he skips breakfast, most mornings. Just dumps coffee in a travel mug to take to the car, where he can drown everything else in the pound of the Knights. He’s almost always running late, anyway.

The day passes in a muddy blur. An hour and a half of lecture, lunch (breakfast) from the sandwich place on the ground floor of the next building over, awkward small talk with someone he vaguely knows from the Visual department. Another hour and a half of piano lab, trying to drill into a bunch of idiot first year heads that yes, you can break the rules, but you’ve got to fucking _ learn _ them, first. Office hours, theory lecture, then playing accompanist for the dance department like he doesn’t have three Grammys gathering dust and dog hair on a shelf.

That was another Hank, though. That was a Hank with fire and passion, who didn’t look like a sad sack of potatoes when he put on a suit. The Hank excited to mold the minds of tomorrow, guide the creative lights that would someday eclipse his own. The Hank that didn’t know his own light could be so easily snuffed out.

Busy or not, there’s always makes time during the day to stare at a blank manuscript paper and kick himself. Grudgingly, he’s become literate enough to teach the latest digital scoring and audio tech, but he’ll always, always prefer sitting at a piano or with a guitar on his thigh and pencilling things in by hand.

He might as well be doing connect-the-dots, these days.

The silence at home is deafening, so most nights, he doesn’t go home. Jimmy knows him from back in the day but doesn’t ask nosy questions about what he’s been working on lately, and the other grouchy fuckers on their way between two boring hells leave him alone. The game’s always on and the liquor always flows and he can stop being Henry Anderson, Washed-Up Musician, and just be Hank, Some Guy At The Bar. Maybe being that guy doesn’t offer much, but at least it hurts a little less.

When he finally stumbles home and falls into bed, his head is too full of the rush of blood and liquor to hear the silence. Never quite enough to stop him waking up.

And then it begins again.

Thursday. Thursdays are the worst, late enough that any momentum he’d started the week with is gone but not quite close enough to the weekend. Or maybe it’s Wednesdays, maybe those are the worst. Whatever. Thursday’s the one he’s stuck in right now, so it’s the worst.

Hank stumbles through the day, chasing a persistent hangover with mug after mug of coffee, until a warning burn in his chest reminds him he’s not a young man anymore.

Not that he doesn’t have students for that. Chen and Reed’s little clique are gathered at the front of the class, giggling and gossiping like they’re not paying hand-over-fist to be here. Then again, most of them come from money. Private music tutoring from toddlerhood doesn’t pay for itself.

He bites back a sneer. Not for him, no, he should’ve been so lucky. Taught himself piano out of library books on a cheap Casio keyboard, bought his first guitar at fourteen with money saved from his paper route and bagging groceries. Funded his first third-hand upright piano by playing that guitar on street corners, then with Ben in seedy bars. Real inspiring story for his wiki page, fucking sucked to live it.

He donated that old Gibson guitar to a charity auction years ago. She’s probably mounted on some pretentious asshole’s wall, instead of enjoying her retirement being misused by new generations.

She was supposed to be Cole’s.

He tries to slam down the cover on the memory, but not fast enough. Cole, maybe four, standing with the guitar leaning on his shoulder and an oversized newsboy cap flopped over his eyes, imitating the serious pout of one of Hank’s bassist friends. His little fingers weren’t strong enough yet to pluck her heavy strings cleanly, so she made sort of a gentle indulgent hum. Cole, tipping back the cap to grin at them, ham it up for the photo, just like his daddy used to.

“Hey, Hank? We gonna have a class today?”

_ God, I hate that smug tone. _ He almost snaps out a negative at Reed, but Hank forces himself to inhale deeply. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s get back into polyphony.”

There’s a chorus of groans from the seats. Hank raises a smug eyebrow of his own. “Perfect demonstration.”

* * *

Maybe this accompanist gig is a good thing. He’s getting a chance to play through the honours students’ pieces over and over on a scale he couldn’t be arsed to do back when they’d first submitted them. He catches several places where things could be tweaked, especially as he observes the dancers trying to keep up with some of the more esoteric choices his students’ve made.

Now, there’s a point he’s never quite figured out how to teach. Somewhere in between psychology and physiology, there’s an instinct that tells you what makes _ sense _ to the human instrument. It’s not even a matter of challenge: Bach is challenging, Coltrane is challenging, but they make sense. Maybe it’s innate, maybe it’s just a matter of hammering away at composition for decades, but there’s definitely a skill there, and some people got it and some really don’t.

If he hasn’t figured out how to teach it by now, he’s probably never gonna. All he can do is make a quick notation and tell them to fix it.

He does enjoy just watching the dancers do their thing. Most of them are already on a professional level, though they pale in comparison to Kara and Luther Exeter. He doesn’t know enough about dancing to be able to say what it is, not that he’s much better at verbalising his own field, but the ballet world’s darling power couple are truly something to see. And they do it all with an enviable gentle humility, with that perfect little kid in tow, and it absolutely makes him feel something nice and socially acceptable and not deeply, rottingly jealous.

That was supposed to be him, that _ was _ him and Karen, once upon a time. At least, in theory: the cracks that broke them didn’t appear overnight.

He becomes aware someone’s watching him. This is Chen’s piece, so it’s not Freckles staring at him again. Hank scans around without moving his head much.

As if his thoughts had conjured her, Alice is peering at him from her folding chair at the edge of the room.

The second she catches his eye, she dives back into the math workbook she’s been eating through. After a second, though, she sneaks another glance at him. Hank obligingly crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. She gives him an unimpressed huff and an eye roll, but after a moment, slips off her seat, coming over.

Hank watches her approach steadily, not pulling any more faces. Alice’s eyes flick from his own down to the keys, then to the sheet music in front of him. Hank’s showing off a little, if he’s honest, not that any pianist worth their salt couldn’t play blindfolded and pissed drunk. Which he’s pretty sure he’s done at some point.

Alice gets an impish glint in her eye, flicking out her foot with speed, elegance, and reach that makes it clear whose child she is, and presses down the damper pedal.

Hank snorts, continuing to play, the notes now slurring together. Peripherally, he sees Kara’s head whip around, embarrassment flashing across her round face. “Alice! Don’t bother Mr. Anderson!”

“I’m not!” She straightens, clasping her hands behind her back.

“She’s fine,” Hank drawls, giving Alice a wink. He plays a few bars before side-eyeing her, then asks conspiratorially, “You read music, kid?”

A jolt of uncertainty runs up her body. “Not good enough to play th—”

“But you can follow along where I am?”

“Yeah.”

Hank can’t help but smile at her more confident tone. “See the line under the staff coming up? That means I gotta put that same pedal down. You think you can handle that part?” With the solemnity only available to the young, she nods.

Alice dips her chin in time with the ones and threes, mouth open, then, with more nine-year-old appropriate kickiness, slaps her sneaker down on the damper. Hank shoots her a grin that she returns.

“Keep your eyes on it,” he instructs, jerking his chin at the page.

They keep it up for the rest of practice. He even gets her to do the tremolo over the end chords, then, on the third time through, take over the upper melodic line. The dancers can forgive a couple muffed notes. Not that she makes many: Alice takes to it like a fish to water, brown eyes intent on the page and fingers dancing lightly over the keys. Picking out a coherent line from the reduction is no small feat, and Hank can’t help a smug grin; natural dance ability aside, their side might just poach this one.

As they gather their things to leave, Kara places a hand on his arm. “Thank you. She…she’s a sharp kid. She gets bored, but we can’t always…” She shrugs, a recognizable frustration tightening the corners of her eyes. It’s hard, when life pulls you seven different directions at once.

Hank shakes his head with a smile. “No problem. Haven’t had that much fun playing since—” Something thick catches in his throat. “Well, in a good long while,” he finishes lamely.

Not seeming to notice his abrupt drop in mood, she beams up at him. “Well…thanks.” With one last pat on his upper arm, she turns, holding a hand out that Alice immediately scampers over, curls bouncing, to take.

Hank doesn’t let himself watch them leave, quicksteps to the other door with his head down and doesn’t lift his eyes until he gets to his car. It’s not their fault, it’s not their fault, it’s not their fault—

That’s right. It’s his.

He slumps behind the wheel, staring blind out the windshield, and pulls in a great breath, releasing it slowly.

_ C’mon, Hank, you gotta at least let Sumo out to piss before you wrap yourself around some highway divider. _

Grimly, he reaches for the Buick’s ignition.

By the time he pulls up in the driveway, he’s mostly calmed down, but that doesn’t dissuade him from making an immediate beeline for the bottle of Jack he left on the side table last night. He doesn’t make any pretense of class, just twists off the cap and takes a heavy pull while he dodges furniture and Sumo on the way to the back door.

He watches Sumo snuffle around the backyard, hoping none of the neighbours are out to see him take another swig. Hank pats Sumo’s pleasingly solid side as he comes back in, and follows him back to the livingroom, collapsing on the couch. He leans his head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling as he absently rubs Sumo’s head. And takes another drink.

Not much left in the bottle, he shoulda dropped by a convenience store on the way home, or gone out. But he meant to get a start on reading through—

“Shit.”

Clear as day, he can see the folder of collected papers he was supposed to bring home. He stares longingly at the remote for a moment, then groans loudly and forces himself up. He rounds the couch, dropping the bottle back on the side table, and kicks back into his shoes.

He’s pretty certain he didn’t just forget it in the car, but there’s always a chance. Schroedinger’s homework, right up until he opens the passenger side door and sees the seat adorned with nothing but stains and an ancient cigarette burn.

“Shit motherfuck.” Hank slams the door resentfully, then leans his arms on the cooling roof.

He could leave it for tomorrow, but the likelihood of him making it in early is less than nil, and who knows if someone might move it somewhere weird between now and then. And Chris wanted to get together for drinks tomorrow after they’re off work, and he knows himself well enough to know he’d probably forget them again or decide that weekend!Hank can come back in for them…

He droops his head with a guttural sigh.

_ If you died, you wouldn’t have to mark the stupid papers. _

“Yeah, well,” he retorts, not having any really good answer for the voice in his head.

The drive back is tense. He’s a big guy, an ounce or two of whiskey isn’t enough to do much of anything to him, but he’s been…extra cautious, since the accident. He squeezes his eyes shut at an intersection, rubbing between his brows. Probably should’ve stopped for a cup of coffee. Probably should’ve done a lotta things.

“Hope you fuckin’ appreciate this, Jeffrey,” he grouses.

The papers aren’t in his office, which he already knew but, like the car, he’d been hoping. That leaves the Chande building, which unfortunately, he doesn’t have keys for. Hank strongly considers just going home at that point, but he’s already ruined his evening, might as well finish the damn thing, so he calls security.

Hank smiles winsomely at the disgruntled guard who finally arrives. She squints at him suspiciously. “Don’t you people ever sleep?”

“Not generally, no.” He ducks through the open door. “Won’t be long.”

She grunts noncommittally and secures the door behind him.

Once he’s out of her line of sight, he slows. Doesn’t matter how old he gets, there’s always a faintly haunted energy to schools and offices after hours that he likes. One part the surreal giddiness of changing costumes in an unfamiliar classroom, one part the echo of footsteps where they’re normally deadened by other passing bodies and the rustle of work.

The door is unlocked and his folder of papers is right on the chair where he left it. Hank scoops it up like a misbehaving puppy and tucks it under his arm.

While he’s here, though…

Hank comes further into the room, putting the folder down on the piano bench. He gives it a mistrustful glare, willing himself not to forget the damn thing a second time.

Not all of Alice’s missed notes were her fault. He sets aside someone’s forgotten pencil, then carefully removes the wooden panel, exposing the piano’s guts. Hank clucks his tongue: there’s dust in the actions and clinging to the felt. With a protracted and unnecessary groan, he crouches down to take off the lower panel as well. He runs his fingers over the thick strings, feeling the faint thrum of life at this gentle contact. Something’s tugging at his attention, but Hank shrugs it off and reaches up blindly for the A3 key. He wrinkles his nose at the sound, but it never hurts to be sure, so he fishes out his phone and taps through to his tuning app. It’s not his preferred method, but his old mouth organ has yet to show up and he’s somehow more stubborn about dropping the twenty on a new one.

_ Always seem to have it to drop on another bottle. _

When he depresses the key again, the app’s needle visual dips in satisfying confirmation. Hank checks on a few of the other keys that keep making him cringe. Maybe it’s just a shitty old upright in a practice room, but that’s no excuse to neglect it like this. He’ll have to call Ben, or see if he can scare up the tools himself…

The thing that’s been plucking at his attention finally registers: music.

Nothing out of the ordinary in a building full of practice studios, but it _ is _ climbing close to midnight. Also, the music is…distinctly sexy. Hank rolls his eyes, replaces the covers, and scoops up his folder and headphones, ready to put the fear of God and disappointed parents into whatever randy students’ve decided a bare vinyl dance floor is the perfect place to get it on.

It’s not hard to follow the sound in the silence. He traces it around a corner into the other wing, down a little further until he’s certain he’s found the door.

He hesitates for a second, hand on the knob. He can certainly hear slaps and creaks and sounds of heavy breath, though less than he’d’ve expected. With another roll of his eyes, he turns the knob, throwing the door wide, an aggressively enthusiastic greeting dying on his lips.

No indecent tangle of limbs assaults his eyes. There’s only one person, actually, and despite the unlit room, Hank recognizes him immediately.

Freckles. No, Connor. He doesn’t know a last name, but he’s heard Luther call him that a couple times. A handsome kid, seems nice enough if a little awkward, but so far as Hank had seen, nothing special. Eternal chorus member type: dependable and skilled but a little too stiff, lacking that interpretive spark that would propel him to centre stage.

That’s not what Hank sees now.

Connor’s eyes are closed, but he moves as though he doesn’t need their input, as though his position in space and time is carried clear in his head, in the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet. His limbs seem to caress the sound waves floating through the air, then the next moment reject them, cast them away, sending him spinning to the other corner of the room. He careens to the floor fast enough to make Hank wince, but every fibre of his body is controlled, flowing back up as though gravity didn’t dare hold him down. In the flash of light from windows and doors, Hank catches his expression, mobile despite those deep brown eyes being covered, his lips parted and short gasps torn from his lips as the music batters his body this way and that.

Raw. It’s a style mishmash, dogged with repeats and stumbles and lacking the perfectly-synced climax and fall of a choreography, but it’s raw and free and compelling and Hank can’t look away. More than that, Connor looks like he’s having fucking _ fun _, even in those moments where his expression dips into something painful, angry.

Beautiful.

It doesn’t hurt that all he’s wearing are a pair of running shorts and his dance shoes. Dim light caresses the sweaty surface of his skin, lingering like a lover’s fingers on the lines of his hips and obliques as he twists, chasing shadows down the lithe muscles of his back. Every time Hank’s seen him, his hair’s been neatly combed back, somehow staying in place through practice apart from one stray misbehaving lock. Now, it crumples in uneven loose curls, perfectly grabbable, undoubtedly soft. Everything about him looks touchable, if only one could catch him.

Cursing himself internally for being a horny old pervert, Hank stands rooted with his hand still on the doorknob until the track winds down onto a protracted, almost wistful chord. At last, he manages to shake the spell he’s under, and slumps against the door frame, crossing his arms in an attempt at looking casual.

“…So, when are you gonna bring _ that _ to practice?”

Connor makes an absolutely indescribable noise, skidding to a halt and slapping his hands across his bare chest.

Hank does his absolute best not to laugh because he’s very obviously uncomfortable—even in the dim light, he can see the flush spreading across Connor’s cheeks and down his throat to his chest, and—

Oh.

Honestly, if Connor hadn’t called his attention to it, the marks would’ve blended into the shadows under his pecs. Even now, Hank’s not totally sure of what he’s seeing, but there are faint, slightly darker lines peeking out from behind Connor’s elbows.

Connor’s attempting to cross his arms in more of a natural disapproving pose. He opens his mouth, lips working, and Hank can almost see the gears turning in his head.

He huffs out a sigh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be spyin’ on you, that was outta line.”

The words seem to simultaneously deflate and energise Connor. “It’s very rude.”

“It is,” Hank agrees.

“You shouldn’t snoop.”

“I shouldn’t.”

He can feel questions pressing at the back of his throat. Before he can pick one that’s not terrible, Connor turns abruptly, crossing to where his phone rests on a bench next to a speaker. He turns off the music, then hauls a loose tank top over his head.

“Could you…go?”

Startled out of blatantly ogling Connor’s toned arms, Hank rubs at his beard guiltily. “Yeah. I, uh…yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” He pushes off the doorframe, taking a step into the hall, then looks back. “Don’t suppose it makes it any better that I thought you were fucking amazing?”

He was aiming for a jokey tone, something apologetic, mood-lightening, but it comes out a little too hushed, a little too awed.

Connor’s ears turn scarlet, the blush travelling down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Hank’s decided that’s all the answer he’s going to get—probably all he really deserves—when the admission finally comes: “Yes.”

Hank inhales sharply before rubbing at his face again, trying to pass it off as a yawn. Which is good, because Connor finally turns to look at him, hands folded behind his back like he’s a schoolboy about to recite a poem, face gone neutral and stiff.

Pursing his lips, Hank shifts his weight. “I won’t tell anybody. About, y’know…” He waves a hand in front of his chest.

A flash of anger, or at least irritation. “I’m prancing around half-naked on school property, you think I’m closeted?”

Hank scrubs at his hair; at least there’s confirmation. “Uh…guess not. I’m…gonna leave, now.”

Connor gives a sharp nod, but… Maybe Hank’s imagining things—probably—but it seems like he wants to say something more. But he doesn’t, so Hank turns a final time.

“You should really get some sleep.”

“I could say the same to you, Professor.” The door snicks softly closed.

Hank stretches his ears in vain for the music to start again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fantasies of having a fully-finished piece but apparently I have a fetish for slowburn. Chapters 1-3 and half of four are finished and I’ll be posting them on a schedule, along with more art!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey also if you’re one of the like three people who follow me for dbh and you’ve been wondering where tf I went, a) I’ve been working on this, and b) we’ve been dealing with cancer in the fam and it’s just been. A Lot. But hey, write what you know? except not exactly.


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